


Locked Up

by NahaFlowers



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Child Neglect, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, yeah this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NahaFlowers/pseuds/NahaFlowers
Summary: An attendee at one of Thomas's salons makes a comment that triggers a panic attack about his past abuse. James finds him and tries to be of comfort.





	Locked Up

**Author's Note:**

> Spurred by discussing Thomas's abuse/trauma pre-canon from being Alfred Hamilton's son with [copper-toned](http://copper-toned.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. I have a lot of feelings about this, and I might write more although I know it's heavy stuff.

Thomas’s salon was officially over, but there were still several knots of people around the room, discussing the points brought up in the salon and making small talk.

James preferred to hang back and let the conversation go on around him – he wasn’t much good at moving in these circles. He supposed he could leave, but Thomas had asked him, with a smile, whether he would stay on after the meeting and discuss it with him over a nightcap. It was the smile that he couldn’t refuse, most of all – he wasn’t sure he would have much to add to the conversation, but he could hardly bear to see that smile falter.

It faltered now. Thomas was from the other side of the room from him, but the gentleman to whom he was speaking was just close enough for James to hear him say, “Honestly, I’ve got half a mind to lock him up in his bedroom until he’s eighteen!”

Thomas’s face seemed to shutter; it was if a light had gone out. He cleared his throat. “Would you excuse me for a moment, sir?” he said, and his voice seemed tighter than usual, as if Thomas was fighting to control it. Perhaps nobody but he and Miranda noticed, but as Thomas left the room, James’s eyes followed him with concern. He glanced at Miranda, who had rejoined the conversation to smooth over her husband’s sudden absence, ever the gracious hostess – but she caught James’s eye for a split second and the concern he saw there echoed James’s own.

James looked at the door through which Thomas had just left, hesitating – but it wasn’t as if he was talking to anybody, and hopefully his presence wouldn’t be unwelcome – he knew it had never been before, anyway. He slipped out the door without anybody noticing (save, perhaps, Miranda) and out into the corridor, trying to discern where Thomas might have gone. He made his way along the corridor and heard – a noise – coming from the slightly ajar door of Thomas’s study.

“Thomas?” said James gently, tapping lightly on the door. There was no response except his breath hitching and releasing, hitching and releasing, as if he was trying to get it under control. James felt his stomach churn. He peered into the gloom, but could see no one, and realised – Thomas must be behind (or underneath?) his desk.

“Can I come in?” asked James gently, hovering on the threshold. Perhaps he should go, pretend he had never heard – perhaps Thomas would prefer to be alone, prefer not to suffer the indignity of his liaison finding him crying, but _God_ , he was _crying_ , and James couldn’t just leave him.

“Yes,” said Thomas in a hoarse voice, taking James by surprise. He made his way slowly, cautiously, inside the room and behind the desk, which, he realised vaguely, he had only ever been on the other side of before. Thomas had stopped crying now, but he was shivering violently, hunched up under the desk and clutching onto its wooden legs for dear life.

“Thomas,” James gasped, and the pain in his voice seemed to jerk Thomas out of his reverie. His gaze jumped to him and then away again, avoiding James’s eyes.

“James,” he said, keeping his voice steady and neutral with great effort, “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

He looked almost embarrassed, even though he was still white-knuckled and shaking, and James shook his head wordlessly, sitting down beside him.

They just sat there for a few minutes, James hoping his presence was any sort of comfort and wishing he had more to offer, Thomas drawing strength merely from James’s steady presence beside him. Eventually his shaking reduced to a mere tremor every now and then, and he unwound his hands from the wooden legs of the table. He sighed, burying his face in his knees, and then merely resting his chin on them, looking at James out of the corner of his eye. He was staring straight ahead, looking pensive.

He turned to look at Thomas. “Why?” he asked, and then looked down at the carpet, ashamed. As if he had any right to ask. “Sorry, I-”

Thomas dismissed his apology with a shake of his head. “Get me a scotch first, would you?” he asked, and James nodded, glad of something useful to do. As he poured the whisky into two glasses, he realised his hands were shaking as well. He handed a glass to Thomas, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

Thomas knocked back the drink in one gulp and closed his eyes. “Ah, that’s better,” he said, smiling, as the alcohol coated his synapses. Then he opened his eyes and looked at James with almost startling clarity. “Did you hear what that man said?” he asked.

James nodded, taking a fortifying sip of his own drink before speaking. “I heard him say he wanted to lock his son in his room until he was eighteen.” Thomas flinched, and James felt an ice-cold flash of realisation. “Did-” He found he could not ask the question, almost did not want to know the answer. And yet, when Thomas spoke, he looked at him, unblinking, hanging on to every word.

Thomas nodded. “When I was fifteen, my father locked me in my room for an entire summer.” He paused at James’s sharp intake of breath. “It was…one of several ways he punished me.” _Not for any perceived wrongdoing, though,_ thought Thomas, _not really. For my existence._ “I got food, most days, when I _behaved_ ,” he said bitterly. “And I got very adept at sneaking out. You wouldn’t expect a lord to be able to pick a lock, would you?” he asked, with a brave attempt at a smile. James, however, did not smile back; rather, he looked horrified. Thomas swallowed hard and forced himself to continue.

“Of course, eventually he found out, and put a servant on the door at all times, to guard me. Some of them were kind to me, but most were in my father’s pocket, and the ones who weren’t were deathly afraid of him,” he added.

James felt sick to his stomach. Thomas was talking about it so casually, as if it were normal, and not a horrendous way to treat anyone, let alone your own son, and someone as brilliant and good and brave as Thomas was. He didn’t know what to say; he wanted to say so many things.

“Anyway,” said Thomas, interrupting his train of thought. “That’s why I rather overreacted to what I’m sure was a perfectly innocent comment.” He grimaced, looking awkward and embarrassed and apologetic all at once, and James wanted to sweep him up in his arms, tell him he didn’t need to be any of those things. He shook his head vehemently.

“You didn’t overreact,” he said. “I- I can’t imagine what that must have been like, what kind of effect that must have had on you, I-” James stopped, at a loss for words. “You didn’t overreact,” he repeated.

Thomas’s expression was hard, defensive, and then all of a sudden it loosened, like all the tension had gone out of it. “Thank you,” he said, placing his hand on James’s, and James couldn’t help the jolt of electricity that went through him when Thomas touched him, skin on skin, despite the innocence of the gesture. He cleared his throat.

“Does this…happen often?” asked James, more for something to say than anything else.

“Not as much as it used to,” Thomas admitted. James felt his heart clutch at that. “Miranda helps. And so do you,” he added, thoughtfully, and butterflies rose, unbidden, in James’s stomach. “But sometimes,” He sighed, dragging a weary hand down his face, “It just happens, and there’s not a thing I can do to stop it.” Thomas sighed unhappily, and James squeezed his hand, purely out of instinct. Thomas graced James with a small smile, uncertain but definitely there. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?” he asked, tentatively.

James hadn’t even thought of it. “No, of course not!” The idea of sharing something so private with anyone else was anathema to James, almost abhorrent.

Thomas’s smile grew a little. “Good. Most of them,” he said, gesturing towards the parlour where his guests were gathered and, James supposed, the outside world, “think I’m half-mad already. It wouldn’t do to add more fuel to the fires of rumour and gossip.”

James felt a white-hot, burning rage towards those people. They didn’t even know him! But this was neither the time nor the place for his anger, he thought. This was about Thomas. Shaking it off, he said, “you’re not mad. You’ve just been hurt, very badly. No one could blame you for reacting to that.”

Thomas’s mouth twisted in a smile, as if he disagreed with James, but appreciated him saying it.

“And you’re so – strong. And good,” said James, thinking he should probably stop talking, but to hell with it. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” James admitted quietly. “And honestly, if I could get my hands on your father, I’d-well,” _beat him to a pulp for daring to treat you with anything less than kindness and affection_ , was what he wanted to say, but that wasn’t really something you could admit to in polite company, even if said company’s father was an evil bastard.

“I shall have to do this more often, if this is the side it brings out in you, Lieutenant,” Thomas all but purred.

“Don’t- don’t say things like that,” said James, suddenly deeply upset that it had taken Thomas crying and shaking with memories of his past for James to tell him what a good man he was. The thing was, he had thought he already knew.

“I’m sorry, you’re right,” said Thomas, soberly. “I shouldn’t joke about it. But I- I do appreciate it, lieutenant.”

“I only say it because it’s true,” said James, quiet but intense, and Thomas’s breath caught in his throat. “Anyway,” he added, with a touch of a smile, “I thought we were past such formalities by now, my Lord?”

This choked a surprised laugh out of Thomas. “Quite right, James,” he said, grinning, but his voice went soft when he said James’s name. James dared to lean into him slightly, and was rewarded by the warm pressure of Thomas’s shoulder against his. “Do you think they’re all gone yet?” he asked.

“I can go and check for you, if you want,” James offered, moving as if to rise.

Thomas pulled him back. “No,” he said. “Miranda can come and find us when they’re gone. Stay and have a drink with me.”

James could hardly refuse, Thomas’s expression was so warm and open, and so he rose to collect the bottle, and poured them both a second glass. Thomas took his hand again as soon as it was free, almost as if it were natural, and James realised later that they hadn’t let go until they had said their farewells at the door.

His hand tingled pleasantly throughout the carriage ride home, although his mind was awash with thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love <3 I do not have PTSD/c-PTSD (although I do experience panic attacks) so let me know if there's anything that sounds untrue or offensive in here.


End file.
